


Deep Still Waters

by almanera4, Tarpeia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: grindeldore, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 00:07:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19345483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almanera4/pseuds/almanera4, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarpeia/pseuds/Tarpeia
Summary: Despite his unwelcome status as the hero of the global wizarding war, Albus Dumbledore’s only wish is to alleviate Gellert Grindelwald’s fate. An opportunity arises when he is invited to Durmstrang as a guest teacher. At this significant place, it becomes difficult to resist the pull of darkness. Set in 1946.





	Deep Still Waters

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Drowned Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18814000) by [Tarpeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarpeia/pseuds/Tarpeia). 



> Although this story takes place after "The Drowned Man", it stands on its own as an insight into Albus’s inner transformation. 
> 
> Based on the original Harry Potter series, this version does not take into account the events revealed in Fantastic Beasts or the movies’ portrayal of Gellert as a malevolent Hitlerian figure. Rather, we have attempted to depict him as a complicated character with valid if controversial ideas.

Seen from a distance, Nurmengard was an obelisk pointing towards the steel-coloured sky. One vertical window ran along its length, cutting through the many floors of the tower. The other three walls leaned against the cliff.

Inside, there was a winding staircase that led from the topmost cell into the very foundation of the mountain. The further down it serpentined, the more oppressive the silence became. No wind howled in those recesses; the cells stood shrouded in shadows.

His legs felt numb with fear. The drop of light at the guard’s wand floated before him like a friar’s lantern, though he did not need it to feel his step. Holding on to the stone wall, he walked on and on, his heart wild in his chest: he sensed they were close. At last, the staircase came to an end, and a door emerged. A few taps of the guard’s wand, and it flew open.

_Please, let him be safe and sound. The rest, I will do. Please._

The torch that came to life lifted some of the gloom. The cell appeared to be empty, yet as his senses adjusted, he heard the slow, grinding sound of a swinging rope. Petrified, he looked up. His eyes met the figure of a man he would have recognised anywhere. He was hanging from—

Albus screamed and jolted awake.

It was raining heavily; dawn had come, dim and chilly. He rubbed at his eyes, waiting to catch his breath, and then heaved himself off the floor. Behind the window, the towers of Hogwarts bathed in mist, as did the Quidditch Pitch: only the hoops peeked out of the white blanket. As soon as the glass panes slid open, March wind blew into his face.

Such weather often delayed owls. He ought to leave a post-scriptum in his note to Madam Bagshot so that she would know more letters might arrive for him and would forward them to the Norwegian post. She was to replace him as the Transfiguration teacher for the duration of his stay at Durmstrang as a guest lecturer. Wondering whether he had neglected to mention anything of importance in his message, he poured clean water into his wash basin and attended to his morning routine.

When he entered his office, he found Fawkes awake on his perch and quickly filled two bowls with herbs and water.

“Good morning,” he whispered, coming closer to stroke the phoenix’s beautiful head. “I will have to leave today, but it won’t be for long. This time, I’ll be back in six weeks.”

Fawkes cocked his head, watching him with a bright black eye. Albus gave his scarlet neck a caress.

“You will look after Madam Bagshot, won’t you, Fawkes? You are fond of her, aren’t you?”

He knew it to be true. As strange as it could appear, he had come to consider Bathilda Bagshot his family: she was his mother-in-law, if ever he had one. They had not spoken of the events of the past, not explicitly, yet at his moment of despair, she had been there for him, ready to call a Healer. She had forgiven him for what many, no doubt, would have deemed to be a betrayal of trust. And for all his youthful criticism of her temper, he had become devoted to her. Fawkes could feel it; he was as protective of the witch as Albus himself.

With one last caress on the crimson plumage, the wizard retreated to let the phoenix peck at the herbs and sought out the letters that had arrived during the night. One by one, he scanned them with anxious eyes, but there was nothing. All the Ministry had to send him were the usual formalities; even Alastor Moody, who was currently in Honduras, had no news to share besides a tenuous lead he had been instructed to follow. Albus hastened to regain his desk and focus on the tasks ahead before disappointment could fully settle in, yet his jaw was set.

_Justice, justice, justice_ —this was the magical governments’ constant motto where Gellert’s sentence was concerned. The moment they had laid their hands on him, the minute they had dragged him from the site of the duel, they had forgotten all about the deal they had made with Albus, ignoring his requirements entirely. Instead of a comfortable cell with fundamental necessities and the right to frequent visits, Gellert had been thrown into the dark dungeon of Nurmengard, where he remained alone, chained and placed under the Silencing Charm. If Albus had been able to negotiate himself the privilege of seeing him once a month, he had only certain politicians’ sadism to thank for it, for they had conceded not out of kindness, but to see him suffer. To them, it was delicious irony that he, who loved Gellert, had been the one to destroy him, if unwillingly, and no amount of scheming or dawdling had helped.

For years, they had approached him, and he would find more and more excuses to delay and blur the traces so as to protect Gellert. Now that the tables had turned and _he_ was in need of a favour, how could they not rejoice at watching him beg for a more lenient verdict? He vividly remembered the smug look on the Swiss Minister’s face upon their last conversation. Indifferent to Albus’s requests, threats or deal proposals, the man had kept offering him chocolate truffles. The gesture had called to mind Aberforth brandishing a Chocolate Frog Card with Albus’s likeness—the card that proudly declared to the world his victory over Gellert—with a stinging “Serves you right.”

_Justice_ : this word was on everyone’s lips. But when it came to Gellert’s treacherous followers, most of whom remained on the loose, fairness no longer seemed to apply. As long as they had made an example of the leader, the authorities would not hear of spending their resources on tracking down a few dozen dangerously radical wizards and witches. No, it was far more convenient to push all the blame onto a single individual, the one who incarnated the cause in the public opinion, and punish him with all the severity known to wizardkind. So what if the traitorous radicals had destroyed Gellert’s campaign to advance their own agendas and had become responsible for countless deaths? It was too inconvenient to deal with them; better pretend that by imprisoning the formidable Grindelwald, the Ministries had avenged the lives lost in the war and had discouraged any future revolutionaries from questioning the status quo. It was all the justice _they_ needed.

There was one advantage to their deliberate blindness. After a series of visits to Auror Headquarters and some careful conversations with the most zealous officers, Albus had managed to plant his idea among the Aurors: that tracking down Gellert’s followers was an essential matter of public safety. Alastor Moody had already succeeded in catching two of those. With no intervention from the authorities, this was but a start.

Only practice allowed Albus to pursue his work when his mind dwelled on the next possible lines of contact—to help Gellert, he needed allies among influential politicians. A soft cry, however, brought a distraction. It was Fawkes. Tense and still, he shook his head, and out of his beak fell a pellet made of undigested herbs.

“Are you all right, Fawkes?” Albus asked in concern.

With another soft cry, the phoenix bent down to peck at more plants, and the wizard reached for the pellet, turning it between his fingers. It possessed medicinal properties and was therefore often used in healing potions. Even more valuable, though, was the gemstone inside: phoenix flint. Cautiously, Albus extracted the stone from the small mass of herbs and found it to be sapphire blue in colour. It was said to protect its wearer from the cold, especially in elevated places. He looked up; it seemed as though the bird’s gaze spoke to him. And he felt he understood.

“Thank you, Fawkes.”

Two sets of talons gently squeezed his forearm in goodbye. Then the phoenix opened his wings and vanished in a shower of sparks.

An hour later, it was time. He had his coat and hat on, his suitcase was at the ready, and his hands held the large, ancient key he had been sent by Durmstrang. Seconds ticked by until the clock struck ten. The Portkey ignited with a blue glow, and in the wink of an eye, the walls of Hogwarts dissipated around him.

A piercing wind slashed at his face. Instinctively, he closed his eyes against the sudden blaze of light; when he opened them again, he was standing in the middle of a snow-covered valley. Mountains towered around him, deserted to his eyes. He was familiar with this landscape from the memories Gellert had shared with him many years ago and knew Durmstrang was near, though it remained concealed beneath impenetrable enchantments.

There was a gentle pop to his left, and he turned round. A petite witch clad in the Institute’s signature red fur cloak had appeared out of thin air. She had olive skin, large dark eyes and boyishly cropped hair set in waves.

"Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Supreme Mugwump and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot," she rolled off, stumbling ever-so-slightly upon his long name, "welcome to Durmstrang Institute. We are honoured to have you. If you would please follow me."

She held out an old book with a crimson leather cover—yet another Portkey. It had to be the school’s precaution in case the first Portkey had fallen into the wrong hands. The fact that he was being received by a student, while unexpected, did not surprise him: Durmstrang was fiercely proud, just like the mountainous landscape around it. War hero or not, he would never have been met by a delegation of chief warlocks.

With a smile and a greeting of his own, he touched the proffered book, which gleamed blue. Within a moment, they were standing before an imposing castle comprised of several connected fortresses and as many towers. It curved around the slope of a mountain, reaching its peak, and its sheer expanse left Albus certain a great many courtyards lay within. Only magic could have achieved such architectonic perfection.

His heart squeezed with guilt. From his position in front of the iron-wrought gates, he could see the azure lake and the wild magnificence of Durmstrang’s panorama. And yet, he was the last person in the world who deserved to be here.

Careful to keep his emotions from reflecting on his face, he turned back towards the young witch, who had addressed him again while they approached the entry. There was but the faintest trace of accent to her fluent and fast-paced English.

"When Nerida Vulchanova founded our school in late 13th century, this main fortress was all there was to it," she explained with a glance at him, as though curious whether he was impressed by their surroundings. "It was only later—after Headmaster Munter took over—that the premises were expanded."

"I have never seen anything more breathtaking," he assured her sincerely.

"Some say Headmaster Munter had a love affair with Nerida and that this is how he took over her legacy. She died soon afterwards," the girl revealed, her voice dropping to near-whisper.

This was not a part of the official introduction, Albus knew, though strictly speaking, she was not breaking the rules of etiquette either. As far as the succession of Durmstrang headmasters went, the history books depicted the procedure as less than transparent, and anything could have happened in the past.

"Either way, we'll never know. But nowadays, our school has achievements both of them would have been proud of," the witch concluded matter-of-factly. "I’m sure Headmaster Halvørssen will be thrilled to tell you more about it. He is awaiting you in his office."

They proceeded inside the entrance hall and towards a grand staircase. Students hurried along the way while some lingered about, their uniforms striking, for the boys’ shirts were crimson red and the girls’ dresses were decorated with lace collars. Despite the many curious glances and whispers, the wizard and his guide never halted in their ascent to the fourth floor, where they found a heavy door bearing a plate with the Headmaster’s name.

Ragnar Halvørssen was a middle-aged man of a stout build and with a sharp gaze. Upon entry into his office, the young witch introduced Albus by his full name, faltering slightly once again.

"Welcome, Professor Dumbledore," the wizard said, rising to his feet. "I trust Miss Valdez has shown you around?"

Albus gave the girl a smile. "Indeed. Thank you, Miss Valdez." He came closer to shake the other man’s hand. "It is an honour to be at Durmstrang. Thank you for your invitation, Professor Halvørssen."

With this, the witch was dismissed, and the two teachers assessed each other.

"I hope you have taken no offense at our decision to send a student to greet you,” the Headmaster resumed. “There was a draw, and many volunteered. Miss Justice Valdez was chosen by an independent source."

A duellist by calling, the wizard gave the impression of great magical power and a resolute nature. He seemed to embody his school’s most valued principles.

"There is no offense," Albus assured him. "Durmstrang's students do their school honour."

These words elicited a genuine smile.

"I’m pleased that we are in agreement. They will not be students forever. Once outside of these walls, they will have to be ready for anything they may face." His demeanour sobered. "Please, take a seat, Mr Dumbledore. There are questions, I believe, that you have been instructed to ask?"

The Englishman would have given a great deal to avoid what was to come. It was true: before his journey, the Ministry had handed him a list of questions with the explicit order to obtain the Headmaster’s answers—questions that filled him with indignation. And yet, he could not refuse. As long as Gellert's sentence remained harsh, he was doomed to dance to the government’s tune, for the alternative meant no hope to ever see the verdict changed.

"That is correct."

He suppressed a sigh and began his interrogation with the mildest question on the list.

"If I may ask, has there ever been a change in the school's stance on complete secrecy where its location is concerned?"

The Norwegian wizard’s politeness never gave way, though he was bound to be tired of this inquiry.

"As the Headmaster of this school, I merely ensure that the education offered at our institution adheres to the highest achievable standards. Any further administrative issues including the policies on secrecy are determined by the school board."

Such an unrevealing answer pleased Albus more than he could admit. He anticipated the Ministry's frustration, though they ought to have expected as much.

"In the current political circumstances, would you deem it prudent to educate young wizards and witches on the Dark Arts, including their more obscure branches?"

"At Durmstrang, we feel compelled to prepare our students as best as possible for the life outside of these walls. And whether we like it or not, the Dark Arts—as well as the other branches of magic—are not something we should ignore. At the very least, our students deserve to be able to recognise what they are confronted with. In fact, I suggest that you discuss this particular question with the students themselves when you hold your seminar."

Halvørssen gave Albus a shrewd look.

"Are the rest of the questions similar, Mr Dumbledore? I imagine your Ministry is rather curious about our attitude towards our best-known former student."

A fragment of his most recent nightmare flashed in Albus's mind: a hanging shape in the dungeon of Nurmengard. He swallowed.

"You are correct again, professor."

"Our official stance is that we are not responsible for what our students set out to do after completing their education—you may write it down as such." The wizard allowed himself a small smile at the idea of depriving the British Ministry of any substantial answer. "Unofficially, however, it is true that you may find his sympathisers among students—save, perhaps, for the Bulgarian fraction."

There was no stopping a smile in response. Confident he could compose similar answers to the rest of the questions, Albus skipped to the end of the list.

"The last one pertains to the students themselves. It has long been tradition at Durmstrang to allow pure Veela access to wizarding studies and wandlore. Has this caused controversy among the other magical species?"

"Indeed," the Headmaster conceded. "Nevertheless, the Veela are welcome to attend, provided they comply with all the rules and restrictions. It will be the case until the school board decides otherwise."

The Englishman nodded his understanding, having expected nothing more.

"Thank you, Professor Halvørssen."

Now that the interrogation was over, his voice relaxed.

"It is an immense privilege for me to host a seminar in the presence of your students. There is something I would like to offer this school as a sign of my gratitude. You may know I have created certain spells; the most useful among them is the variety of Patronus Charm that can be used to send verbal messages when there is urgency and a need for transcending protective wards. With your permission, I would be happy to dedicate a separate lesson on this subject to any volunteers."

The suggestion was met with an approving nod.

"You will find our curriculum student-driven, Professor Dumbledore. I shall officially introduce you tonight, and you will be free to make an announcement. From my side, I only welcome such an initiative." Halvørssen paused. "A small tip, perhaps. Durmstrang is comprised of students from different parts of Europe. I feel I must warn you: depending on their country of origin, the level of formality among them may differ. I’m sure you already know this, but it is my duty to tell you in case it comes as a shock to an Englishman such as yourself."

"I understand." Albus thought of the days ahead, and a frown settled on his brow. "I have a request. An important appointment will take place in three weeks' time, and I will have to leave the school's premises for a few hours. If it's not too inconvenient, could we arrange for Miss Valdez to escort me back afterwards?"

"Certainly. It is Miss Valdez’s duty to assist you for the duration of your stay—please feel free to call on her at your convenience.” The Norwegian rose. “Now, let me show you into the guest wing."

Later that day, a formal welcome took place in the spacious dining hall with its panoramic view of the mountains. Unlike at Hogwarts, where four long tables corresponded to the four Founders’ Houses, the Durmstrang students sat in small groups at tables illuminated with globes of light, which lent the opposite wall, strewn with diamonds, an unearthly shimmer. A trilogy of songs inspired by old legends were performed in honour of the guest, and it was with a sense of genuine enchantment that Albus rose to make a speech.

At that moment, it did not matter he was to teach a dry Ministry subject he cared nothing for: wizarding law—for in truth, as far as he was concerned, those two words did not belong in the same sentence. There was comfort in finding himself at the place where Gellert had been happy; this knowledge rendered the school sacred in his eyes.

This, perhaps, accounted for his peaceful night. His guest bedroom was comfortable, and he spent a long while looking out of the window onto the moonlit lake. At Hogwarts, he slept on the stone floor and partook of the plainest food, determined to allow himself no luxuries while Gellert suffered in the dark. At Durmstrang, however, he dared not. The school had accepted him, and while he remained within its grounds, he would contain his grief.

The following morning brought the sight of a clear sky over glinting snow; the surface of the azure waters was almost blinding with brightness. Albus could not tear his eyes off the view. As he sipped his breakfast tea, he thought of the painting Gellert had once created for Ariana and which now hung in his office—it showed this very same landscape seen from the dining hall. If only one could go back in time... He barely dared imagine how different their lives would have been, had they been wise enough to avoid the conflict with Aberforth in their teenage years. How happy they would have been together! Gellert would have fully engaged in politics, having cleared his name after his expulsion from school and thus become free to pursue his dream in all the legal ways available to wizards. He, Albus, would be helping him while maintaining a teaching post at Hogwarts or at Durmstrang; if he were honest with himself, he had always enjoyed teaching. They would even have found a way to involve Ariana and give her a fulfilling life—with their support, she would gradually have overcome her fear of the outside world.

It was a painfully sweet fantasy that would not leave his mind. Not for the rest of that day; not in the days to come either, which he spent giving lectures and mingling with the other teachers.

The students, he was impressed to see, kept up with the swift pace of his subject. Every lesson started with a brief revision, and a test took place twice a week. In order to mark, he liked to retire into an empty classroom, which faced the peak of the mountain and where draughty silence mingled with the buzz of life behind the open door. Occasionally, he would be joined by those who sought more detailed explanations on his classes. That particular afternoon, two weeks after his arrival, was no exception. He had paused in reading one of the answer sheets to glance out of the window when a knock on the door caught his attention.

It was Justice Valdez, accompanied by the young wizard she always shared her desk with. Italian in appearance, he was a particularly careful student.

"Professor? May we disturb you for a moment?"

"Certainly, Miss Valdez."

She came closer, gesturing towards her companion. "This is Giacomo. We were wondering if we could show you something."

The boy seemed a little embarrassed at the playfulness in her voice. Putting down his quill, Albus glanced from one to the other. He had come to know the young witch well enough to be certain her merry nature held no malice.

"Very well," he decided before sliding the stack of tests inside a folder. "What is it?"

"It's… in one of the hallways—somewhere without much commotion," the young wizard explained.

"It's a special place," Justice quipped, barely restraining her mirth.

Albus half-wondered whether this was a part of a prank, but he felt curious despite himself. He trusted them not to waste his time.

"Then you can lead the way."

While they walked, Giacomo stole a timid look at the teacher.

"Do you like it here, professor?"

"Very much," Albus admitted. "The school's brilliant reputation is well-deserved."

"We saw Inca and Pia come out of your classroom, looking somewhat disappointed."

The boy had referred to a duo of Veela girls, who had attempted to negotiate themselves better marks a little earlier. Daringly, they had resorted to a hint of allure, the Veela charm, though it had been in vain.

"They always try to get better results this way," Justice added.

"I believe we have reached a fair agreement," Albus said amiably. "There is no room for ambiguity in the basics of wizarding law."

"There," the witch suddenly pointed.

They had come to a halt in a quiet hallway near the library. On the wall, there was the symbol of the Deathly Hallows.

Albus felt all air leave his lungs. He knew what this place was, and he knew who had carved the rune in the stone. As if it had happened yesterday, he remembered Gellert drawing the very same sign in the library of Diagon Alley, his eyes shining with scholarly excitement. He could also recall the German wizard’s admission to having vandalised school property. The rune was here, a vestige of a youthful dream, and Gellert's own hand had traced its lines.

It was not without effort that he kept his expression composed. The wave of guilt and fear that constantly simmered beneath his mask had risen to the surface. In a week, he was to visit the wizard who had once engraved this symbol—now a prisoner for life—and he was terrified at the very real possibility of finding Gellert’s state deteriorating still. Night after night, his nightmares would conjure images of his beloved starved to death or driven insane while he, Albus, struggled helplessly to find a solution. He was afraid his next visit would be his last, and this fear was overwhelming to the point of panic.

With a steadying intake of breath, he met the two students’ gazes.

"Thank you for showing me."

His reaction wiped the joyful smile off the girl’s face. She looked at her companion, who hastened to speak up.

"Nobody knows what it means..."

"It stands for the Deathly Hallows," Albus replied. "The magical objects mentioned in the _Tale of the Three Brothers_ by Beedle the Bard."

"We know this," the Italian wizard started.

"But it's a children's story!" Justice exclaimed impatiently, emphasising the word _children_ , so that her Spanish accent became more pronounced. "We meant to say, what does it _mean_?"

Taking his eyes off the carving, Albus considered them. He would not give them an excuse for delving too deep into Necromancy.

“A youthful dream, that’s all it was.”

"I would join him," the witch suddenly declared.

Giacomo rolled his eyes in her direction.

"What?" she persisted. "I would. They say he is very handsome. His eyes are the deepest sapphire blue, impossible to look away from, and his voice is so mesmerizing, one doesn't need the Compulsion Charm to obey his commands."

"The depth of your reasoning astounds me, Justice," the boy returned scoffingly. “Such a worthy reason for joining a cause—its leader is _handsome_.”

It was her turn to roll her eyes; both had momentarily forgotten about the Englishman’s presence.

"Whether you like it or not, the looks are important—what do you think, what kind of a girl would follow the orders of a troll?"

"Sometimes I wonder why you are in disagreement with Pia and Inca—you sound so alike," he remarked, causing her to grimace. "Besides, what about his ideology?"

With this, the young wizard turned towards Albus.

"Is this what you meant, professor? By saying it was all but a youthful dream. Did you mean to say his ideas were naive?"

The reluctant smile that had settled on Albus's lips at the sound of their banter wavered.

"His ideas came from the right place. We could all use more equity in our lives. Sadly, our world is not perfect, and it's difficult to maintain clear sight when despair settles in. At such times, loneliness makes everything more difficult. People have agendas, all of them. Those who know true friendship, like the two of you do, are fortunate."

The teenagers exchanged glances; both were unsure what to say in response. They had agreed to bring the English teacher to this place in order to ascertain whether the rumours had any truth to them; yet in doing so, it was as though they had intruded upon something intimate. It did not feel right.

For once, Justice felt at a loss, and her companion was first to break the silence, his eyes downcast.

"Professor, we really shouldn't have shown you. I mean… this symbol shouldn’t even be here: while everyone knows, it's frowned upon."

"Let it be our secret," the witch proposed with something of her usual smile.

Touched, Albus nodded. "That's agreed."

It would have been a lie to pretend the incident had not shaken him. And yet, this was not the last surprise these particular students had in store for him.

Several days later, he was walking out of his afternoon lesson, a fresh stack of essays in hand. He was curious to read those and compare their standards to the strictly English method, which barely evolved at Hogwarts as time passed. After all, there was no complete unity of mentality and reasoning at Durmstrang, given the many nationalities within its grounds. He had witnessed as much in class, yet writing was a no less revelatory means of communication—one that he sometimes preferred.

Crossing an inner courtyard, where snow swirled in the wind, he proceeded into a corridor lined with torches. There, his thoughts were distracted by a pair of voices coming from a little alcove around the corner. Those voices were like molten silver, sweet and melodious in their intonations. He knew they belonged to pure Veela.

"Cosa ne dici, Giaco?" one of them cooed.

The name was familiar, as was the voice; at this point, Albus remembered most of the students who attended his seminar. There was an accent to the girl’s Italian, and he recognised her to be Inca, one of the Swedish Veela. She seemed to have opted for the language to impress the wizard she was speaking to.

Before he could proceed down his path, more conversation reached him.

"It would be a shame if you couldn't make it," the other Veela by the name of Pia was saying.

"Of course, you'd have to ditch your pet goblin," Inca hurried to add on a seductive tone.

This was when Miss Valdez’s voice cut in.

"I wouldn't be able to make it anyway, Inca," she riposted, her words bubbling with anger. "Unlike you and your venomous sister, this _goblin_ has been chosen to represent our school, and as such, she has duties. I am to assist the English professor, you see."

Having intended to speak to the girl all along, Albus decided to intervene. He turned the corner and let out a delicate cough to alert the teenagers to his presence. The effect was almost comical: the Veela witches started and let go of the Italian boy, whom they had been squeezing between them.

"Good afternoon, professor," Giacomo said, quickly recovering his composure. "Are you looking for something?"

"Can we assist you?" Pia uttered nearly at the same time.

"Good afternoon," Albus smiled. "Miss Valdez, may I request a few minutes of your time? I was hoping you could help me."

With a look of relief that was only perceptible to his experienced eyes, for her expression remained confident, the Spanish witch beamed.

"Most certainly! If you'll excuse me, ladies… Pia, Inca, enjoy the party. Giaco, make sure to flirt with everyone—which you do anyway, witches and wizards alike!"

"Justice..."

Without letting Giacomo finish, the girl practically skipped to the teacher’s side, exaggerating her Southern mannerisms just a notch for the sake of the momentum. Together, they set off down the hallway.

"I wonder if it would be convenient for you to meet me tomorrow half an hour later than we have agreed,” Albus inquired in reference to his appointment. “I know this is short notice, and I'll understand if you have an engagement."

"Not at all, professor," she promised. "I will be waiting for you half an hour later—it will leave me just enough time for a gløgg break. Have you already tried? Here, we have our own variety of gløgg, a little different from the Muggle kind, though that one isn’t bad either. Of course, it’s not advisable for school nights, but I've an appetite for it..."

She paused and then sighed. "I'm sorry you had to witness this, professor. Pia and Inca always act this way. They suck up to him because his father is Matteo d'Angelli—you know, the famous Italian politician from an old pure-blood family. Maybe you have heard of him. Anyway, my parents sell antiquities; my mother is English, but the rest of my family is from Seville. It’s very beautiful down there. Have you ever been to Spain, professor?"

If anything could have made Albus’s blood run cold, this was it. He was acquainted with the Italian politician named Matteo d'Angelli all too well. How could he have missed the surname in the class register? Admittedly, there was no physical resemblance between young Giacomo and his father; nor did the boy appear to have inherited the nature of the wizard Albus loathed with all this might. It was d’Angelli who had almost caused Gellert to be—

"Only once," he replied evenly. "I had the pleasure of attending a colloquium in Barcelona and thoroughly enjoyed my visit." Glancing at her, he summoned a warm smile. "You have nothing to apologise for; poor behaviour only reflects badly on its perpetrator."

"You know, I will tell those succ—ah, I will tell them just that when I see them again," Justice declared, radiant. "Thank you, professor."

On this note, they parted, and the Englishman headed for the guest wing, recollections flooding his mind. All of this was of no importance. The following day, he was to visit Gellert at Nurmengard, and he would do everything in his power to provide him comfort and support. This was all that mattered.

When morning came, he walked out of the school grounds and Disapparated, leaving Scandinavian Mountains behind. All at once, he was surrounded by Austrian Alps. The glacial cold notwithstanding, Albus desperately wished Gellert had been placed into a cell possessing a window: to watch the sky, to feel the sun on his skin would have been a blessing to a prisoner. Even as he approached Nurmengard, his eyes took in the massive walls of the tower, searching for a weak spot that would allow an escape. But the prison had been designed by Gellert himself, and it bore every trace of his precaution. The stone walls were imbued with magic, impermeable to explosion. Supposing, even, he could blast his way into the dungeon without harming Gellert in the process, there would be too little time to undo the wards around the imprisoned wizard—to say nothing of his enchanted shackles—and take him out of the reach of the anti-Apparition wards. The guards would be upon them in an instant, and with Albus dispatched to Azkaban, nobody would be left to fight the battle on Gellert’s behalf.

Still, new plans formed in his mind while he scrutinised the tower, hoping, plotting, wondering if any known spells were potent enough to undo the magic that oozed from its every stone. Fruitless as they were, they offered one last straw to hold on to before emotion overpowered him.

He surrounded his wand to a stern-faced guard, submitted to a test with a Dark Detector and was instructed to follow one of the Austrian wizards downstairs. His breathing had become erratic, and his pace was increasing with every step. As soon as the dungeon door opened, he rushed into the dark cell, where a candle seemed to add to rather than take away from the shadows.

“Gellert!”

The man chained to the wall could have been a statue. Tall and graceful though he was, gauntness was becoming pronounced in his limbs clad in a prison robe. He sat propped against the wall, the shackles heavy on his wrists. When Albus dropped to his knees before him, he saw the blond wizard’s eyes were unfocused.

“Gellert, my love. Can you hear me? It’s Albus. I’m here with you; I’m staying for as long as I can. I’ve missed you so much.”

The handsome features appeared haggard; the golden hair hung in wild strands. His gaze never rose: like the mute lips, it let out nothing. It was impossible to tell whether he had heard the other man’s words or could perceive his presence.

The sight of his suffering brought tears to Albus’s eyes, and it cost him the greatest effort to swallow his grief. His own feelings had to wait; he had to be strong for Gellert and bring him whatever comfort could be found. He wished he could touch his hand, but this was impossible since a magical barrier had been erected around the prisoner, and it only came off during the times when feeding and cell cleaning took place. Speech was his only tool, and he would not lose a second of it.

He spoke of everything: teaching, the spells he had invented at Gellert’s suggestion, Durmstrang. This permitted him to switch from English to German and then to Italian in the hope of stirring the other wizard’s recollections. To insert a little light into the joyless cell, he also resorted to sharing some of his memories. Extracting those without a wand was a challenge, but he had practised for long enough to succeed. Legilimency was out of the question; it was a draining and painful branch of magic even for those at the height of their power.

Touching his temple, he whispered an incantation, his focus heightened to its fullest degree. A luminous memory stayed trapped between his fingers. It floated in the air between the two men, unfolding to show Durmstrang Castle in all its glory. In the valley beneath, the azure lake glistened in the sun.

“Can you see it, Gellert?” Albus whispered. “It’s Durmstrang as you knew it; it hasn’t changed since you attended. Many among its inhabitants remember and admire you. I have seen the symbol of the Deathly Hallows; it is still on the wall near the library.”

The memory outlined Gellert’s profile with a pearly glow. His eyes rose towards it, as if becoming conscious of the light, yet his expression did not change. An idea, a terrifying idea Albus had resisted acknowledging until now forced its way into his thoughts: what if Gellert believed him to be a hallucination? What if he was unsure whether this moment was truly happening or was but a figment of his tortured reason? If this was the case, what could Albus do to convince him otherwise? Whatever it took, he had to keep Gellert from becoming a captive of his own mind.

He delved into his pocket and produced the blue gemstone Fawkes had given him. It was not an object apt to be spotted by Dark Detectors, and as such, the guards had missed it. If he remained cautious, they would never find it, let alone recognise it for what it was.

“This is phoenix flint,” he said. “It offers protection from the cold in high places, such as the mountains. This little stone is the same shade as your eyes. I think Fawkes meant for you to have it.”

Slowly, so that Gellert would stay aware of his motions, Albus slipped the gem between two slabs of stone, as close to the blond wizard as he could manage without breaching the magical barrier between them. If Gellert had registered the words, if he could recall them at a later time, maybe he would find the piece of flint, and this would serve as evidence their meetings were reality and not imagination.

Footsteps broke out behind the closed door: they had minutes left, if not seconds. Albus had no choice but to replace the memory in his head. Its ivory glow died, restoring the cell to its darkness.

“I love you, Gellert.” He leaned closer, striving to get his words of encouragement across. “I will be back. And when you move to a different place with good conditions—and you _will_ move there—we will be able to talk for much longer. I will not leave you; I won’t let them keep you here, I swear. I will be back here at the first opportunity, my love.”

The door swung open.

“Besuchszeit ist vorbei.”

Delaying was unwise, Albus had quickly learned as much. With one last, devoted look at the blond wizard, he stood up and let the guard lead him upstairs. Upon reclaiming his wand, he asked in what manner Gellert was being fed. They told him that being in no state to eat, he was being kept alive with Nutritive Potions. There was nothing to say in response.

It was only outside in the snow that he could allow his guilt and anguish to take over. No one could hear him but the mountains. It was his fault—the entire tragedy, the pain Gellert endured every day, the hopeless, catatonic state he was in—none of it would have come to be, had Albus been half-clever. Instead, he had been unable to handle his own brother and protect his sister, and he had foolishly trusted the Ministries to keep their word. And now… now the person he loved most in the world was suffering the worst of fates.  

He was not sure how he pieced himself together in order to meet with Miss Valdez and return to Durmstrang. Every visit left him feeling as though he had relinquished a piece of himself at Nurmengard prison.

The early hours of that evening found him at Agerton's Lounge, a village pub frequented by numerous members of school staff. Having ordered a glass of mead, he had sought out a small table near a frosty window topped with a knot of magical herbs. Antler trophies decorated the cosy space, which was lit with torches, as well as blue and red flames in jars. One of those stood before him, and he contemplated it, the glass loose in his hand. With what remained of his willpower, he was making a mental list of eminent public figures he could approach while staying in Norway.

"Mr Dumbledore?" came the Headmaster’s voice from his right. "May I join you?"

Albus looked up and smiled.

"By all means, Professor Halvørssen. Please."

The Norwegian wizard took the seat opposite him, setting down his drink.

"If I may, Miss Valdez informed me you were feeling unwell upon your return; after all, it is a part of her duties to act as a liaison between you and the faculty during your stay. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"It is kind of you to inquire, professor. I’m all right." Albus considered him carefully but did not hesitate. "There is, perhaps, one point I would like to consult you on."

The Headmaster nodded to indicate he was listening.

"Do you believe it would be possible for me to meet a few members of the board of governors? It would help me tremendously if I could make the acquaintance of as many wizards with ties to the Ministry as possible. I do not mean to inconvenience you, professor. Only, if there is a public event scheduled before my departure, I would be grateful for a chance to attend."

His question was met with a penetrating glance.

"What is it that you want, Mr Dumbledore? The board of governors is comprised of wizards with vastly different political views and variable degrees of influence. This is where we differ from Beauxbatons and Hogwarts: the very reason we enjoy more… liberties, shall we say, is because this influence is not concentrated around one central force. Think about it this way: our students come from very privileged families yet different countries. It is the merit of my countrymen that the school is currently governed the way you have witnessed. Should it change in the future, the Norwegian influence will drastically be reduced, and the governors from the other magical communities will enforce their authority. So if I am to assist you, professor, you have to speak more plainly."

Albus nodded his understanding. Small talk was, indeed, inappropriate under the circumstances; it was necessary to reveal the root of his predicament.

"You have mentioned there are Gellert Grindelwald's sympathisers among students and, possibly, their families. I am looking for those who have enough power to soften his verdict. The Ministries deceived me when they requested my help. I seek justice."

"Professor Dumbledore," Halvørssen started on a pragmatic tone, "my personal opinion aside, what you ask for is going to be difficult if not impossible. You understand, of course, they are making an example of Gellert Grindelwald. Certain students do sympathise with his ideas—Miss Valdez, I believe, might well be among them—but their parents know better." He took a sip of his drink. "Did you know him well?"

"I do." The Englisman refused to slip into the past tense. Gellert was alive, and he needed Albus to be strong for him. "I understand _why_ they are making an example of him. They are wrong."

"Students are fond of you," the Headmaster stated suddenly. "It is an impressive achievement. Many of our visitors don't quite grasp what makes Durmstrang so different: the fact that we educate the crème de la crème, as it were. Our students are the thinkers of tomorrow. Forgive my lack of modesty, but despite what the anti-Durmstrang propaganda will have you believe, we excel at our task. Sadly, not every outsider understands what teaching privileged students such as ours entails: they are very confident young people—cocky even, one might say—and one has to earn their respect before educating them. You seem to be a natural. In a way, it feels as if you have been here before."

Albus held his gaze, and though he neither confirmed nor contradicted the assertion, his expression softened.

"Thank you, professor. I meant what I said: it is an honour for me to stay and teach at Durmstrang."

"Before I give you any suggestions, please consider this. It is not a coincidence that Gellert Grindelwald was a Durmstrang student. His ideas, while a source of many tragedies, were as bold as they were innovative. Even now, these ideas—and the wizard himself—have numerous admirers. Yet for all their admiration, his sympathisers will never act on it. They are intimidated, and rightfully so. This holds particularly true for our Germanic colleagues; Bulgarians are not worth approaching either. Perhaps my countrymen might consider helping you, as well as our Swedish colleagues. But under no circumstances try to influence or be influenced by our students, Professor Dumbledore. I feel I must stress this. Our students are experts at… blurring the boundaries. Hardly surprising, seeing who their parents usually are. Be always aware of it. I’m certain you are a good judge of character, but it is better to be forewarned."

“I appreciate your advice,” Albus assured him. “I will follow it scrupulously.”

"I must also warn you that even with the contacts you might establish here, nothing will change in the near future,” the Northman added. “There has been too much bloodshed. The majority of wizards are driven by vengeance; the rest have been scared into silence."

His words all but rekindled the fears that had been gnawing at Albus's heart for over a year. Deep down, he knew the Headmaster was right, but he could not permit himself to believe it.

"I have to use all the means available," he confessed. "Every step counts."

Halvørssen fixed him with a firm stare.

"Why is he worth all this? You must know Gellert Grindelwald is far from the first wizard to have entertained the ambition of dissolving the Statute of Secrecy and the corruption it entails. Many before him dreamed of securing more liberties for wizards, especially up here. The ideology is compelling to certain minds. He is not the first, nor will he be the last."

"He sacrificed his own peace and happiness to make the world a better place,” Albus explained, his drink forgotten. “By all means, he is not alone in having suffered from the consequences of our laws on secrecy, yet he is one of the very few wizards who have tried to push for a change. True, those attempts have led to violence, but our governments are both misled and dishonest to hold him responsible for all the misfortunes. Most of the bloodshed was his followers' work, and _they_ are allowed to roam free."

"And yet, _his_ ideas are what drew those bloodthirsty witches and wizards to him," the Norwegian cut in soberly. "Every coin has two sides, Professor Dumbledore, as I'm sure you’ll agree. Who is to decide what is good and what is right? Not one wizard, surely. I didn’t know Gellert Grindelwald in person—in fact, I was chosen for this post precisely because I had no ties to him; it was a compromise the school board had to agree on. The Institute has been under a lot of pressure due to Mr Grindelwald's fame: an entire smearing campaign has been directed against us. This being said, I believe you when you say it wasn’t Mr Grindelwald's fault. It is not sensible to hold a single wizard responsible for everything, though we cannot deny he started it all."

He paused, aware the English professor was not going to reveal his personal reasons for fighting on behalf of the most infamous wizard in Europe. He therefore went on, toying with his glass.

"It is true there are sympathisers of his ideas among our students and their families, but I must repeat this: _sympathisers_ is all they are. As the Headmaster of Durmstrang, I can testify the ideas have always been present; only, Mr Grindelwald had enough skill and charisma to infect the others with them, never thinking of the consequences. Over time, he attracted dangerous individuals he could never have dreamed of controlling. That is how it is. At Durmstrang, we teach the Dark Arts, but we also make it clear _when_ and _if_ they are to be used. Ideas can be as dangerous or even more so than the Dark Arts. One needs to control them, contain them. That lesson was lost on Gellert Grindelwald. If you are a loyal follower of his, I cannot condemn you, but it is important to recognise where he went wrong and how much it cost us all. If I am to connect you with people of influence, I will ask you for one thing in return: do not involve our students under any circumstances, no matter how much they may want to approach you—as I'm sure they have already tried. Are we clear on this, Professor Dumbledore?"

"You have my word of honour," Albus said earnestly. "I'm not oblivious to my duty, which is to transmit my knowledge to your students. My political opinions have no place in this. It has never been my intention to influence young people in choosing sides."

"Very well," the Northman conceded. "Are you up to giving classes tomorrow? If not, we could organise some sightseeing for you, to which you have every right as our guest. Alternatively, your contract allows you to attend the classes given by my colleagues."

"I would be honoured to attend those," Albus smiled.

Later that night, however, he could not have smiled if he had tried. The sense of enchantment that had seized him upon his arrival to Durmstrang was gone; instead, he felt as though he had never left the dark cell of Nurmengard—he seemed to be carrying it inside him.

Behind the window of his bedroom, the stars cast a glimmer upon the blanket of snow settled over the mountains. The deep still waters of the lake, pitch-black in the dark, inspired sombre thoughts. He had only known happiness for two months in his life; the rest of it could have been described as being tossed into the middle of an icy lake and struggling to swim to the shore that always remained within sight yet out of reach.

Sometimes it felt as though Gellert and he had been cursed at their birth. Being together was all they had needed for contentment; had it truly been so much to ask for? Wealth, glory: none of it was of the remotest consequence. When he thought of the most perfect time in his life, he would recall the night sky in the moors near Godric’s Hollow and Gellert’s handsome face looming above his own. He would hear the sound of crickets and feel the silkiness of the blond locks between his fingers as he whispered his lover’s name. An entire lifetime seemed to be contained in that night alone: passion combined with shared plans and full trust.

Instead, they had been ripped apart and destroyed by the very same cowards who would not have even dared to challenge them, had they stayed united. Radical pure-bloods with their violent anti-Muggle agenda and wizarding governments determined to keep an iron grip on a population steeped in secrecy: they were what was wrong with the magical community. It was their combined authoritarian influence Gellert had been battling, only to be isolated and imprisoned.

At his reminiscence of the vermin responsible for his lover’s sentence, Albus’s anguish turned to rage. It had happened in the weeks following the duel. Gellert had not been admitted to the trial; his fate was to be decided in his absence. Although allowed to attend, Albus had, by then, already fallen in disgrace, both for sabotaging the Ministry and for his flat refusal to kill the German wizard.

Most of the latter’s followers—especially the most infamous ones—had disappeared from public life, anxious to save their hides. One had remained, only to impact the final verdict in a devastating way.

Albus had watched him over the heads of prominent European politicians: a tall, proud, statuesque man of East Asian descent. How he had come to join Gellert, Albus knew not; all he could tell was that the man—Li Wei was his name—had become something of his leader’s military strategist and bodyguard. His posture exuded the inflexible confidence of a soldier, and there was an air of furious defiance about him. He had refused to answer any questions or make a statement, aside from a vehement pledge.

"I chose to follow my leader and fight for the Greater Good. I regret nothing except not having destroyed you all."

It had been no different when Albus had located Gellert’s hiding place, reuniting with him after decades of separation. That night had been stormy, punctuated with thunder. Out of the many wizards and witches who called themselves Grindelwald’s followers, Li Wei alone had advanced to protect his master. In his obstinacy, he would not be swayed. It was in vain that Albus had assured him he meant Gellert no harm; there was no reasoning with the other man. A short duel had ensued, culminating with the Asian wizard casting the Killing Curse, which had missed Albus by an inch. This, he had done against Gellert’s orders. Losing all patience, Albus had then resorted to an obscure spell to knock the wizard unconscious: while a furtive move, time had been scarce, and every minute had counted in his endeavour to speak to Gellert, to persuade him to flee. Only, to his chagrin, the German wizard had been unwilling to hide any longer. And so had come their first and last duel: an act of love translated into magic, a dance amidst the colourful flames of their spells.

After Gellert’s capture, Li Wei had been apprehended and brought before the judges. And despite his respect for the man’s sense of loyalty, Albus had found himself regretting not having killed him when there had been a chance. With his unyielding attitude, the wizard was ruining Gellert’s prospects, and if he knew it, he did not care. No, it was the cause, _for the Greater Good_ , he was devoted to, and not his leader. Even though Gellert had succeeded in earning his devotion and had treated him with friendship and esteem, the cause took precedence in Li Wei’s eyes.

Yet before being led out of the hall, the Asian had raised his head to shoot Albus a look of burning hatred. He clearly longed to attack the man he considered responsible for his master’s downfall. As it was, all he could do was address the assembly, which he did on a fierce tone.  

"Hide behind the back of your false leader, Albus Dumbledore, all you want; the day of reckoning is coming. Dumbledore might have dealt my leader a blow, but the war is not over. You will pay for what you’ve done, all of you, for the Greater Good will find a way and justice will be served."

Albus had not avoided his gaze. He understood, after a fashion: having been unconscious, Li Wei had heard none of his conversation with Gellert, nor was he aware of the strength of their bond. As far as he was concerned, Albus was the lowest of traitors and hypocrites. The room had chuckled at his pronouncement, particularly his ingenuous belief that Dumbledore was the Ministries’ _leader_ . The irony was supreme: no matter how many times they called him a _war hero_ , he held no political power worthy of the name.  

This was when Matteo d’Angelli had risen to give a speech that had nearly led to yet another catastrophe.

“You have heard this wizard,” he had exclaimed, lifting his arms in emotion. “You have seen how much anger and loathing he carries inside him. And yet, is _he_ our true enemy? No, my friends; our enemy is the wizard who preaches freedom and equality yet brings nothing but destruction in his wake. Where he appears, blood and suffering follow suit, and innocent people die. Gellert Grindelwald is the reason this man is what he is today. Gellert Grindelwald and his silver tongue!”

He had paused, breathing in the excitement of his audience. One would have heard a pin drop in the silence.

“How many of you have lost your loved ones?” he had resumed, ever more animated. “How much magical blood has been spilled? And for what? For the sake of one man’s delusion: a dangerous man, who happens to possess the ability to turn the best of our kind into what you just saw. You may feel disdain for Li Wei, but he is only another victim of Gellert Grindelwald’s, worthy of our compassion.”

With a dramatic sigh, he had proceeded to kindle the listeners’ attention.

“We cannot bring our loved ones back, nor can we un-spill the blood that has been shed. But together, we can avenge our many fellow wizards and witches, who suffer from the consequences of the war to this day. We can ensure that no one will fall under Gellert Grindelwald's spell ever again. There is only one way to do this: silence him forever.”

Some of the politicians had manifested their approval with nods and claps of assent, and, certain of his victory, he had turned to stare around the circular hall, his arms high in the air.

“Curse off his tongue!”

It was at Albus his triumphant smile had been directed, and at that moment, the Englishman had felt his heart stop. Hyperventilating, he had attempted to gather arguments against the ghastly proposition, unsure how he would overturn the sly speech but determined to prevent the beasts from mutilating Gellert at all costs. His panic-stricken mind had been struggling to construct a passable discourse when, against all expectations, Gellert was saved. And the help had come from the most unlikely person: Archenhaud d’Aubernon, one of the French Ministry representatives.

“Of course, ze Italien Ministère will be taking full responsibility for zis action?”

It had promptly become clear Matteo d’Angelli had anticipated no objections. Had Albus not been breathless from suspense, he would have laughed at the Italian’s confused expression. The latter had glanced at his countrymen for help, only to receive blank, expectant looks in response.

“Mais voyons,” a Swiss politician had intervened, “ve are all civilised peoples ‘ere; let us be sensible. Ve vant to make a juste exemple of zis Dark vizard, not descend to ze same level as ‘im. Or what next, shall ve be sacrificing convicts for cannibalistic rituels?”

This had resulted in an intense debate. Little by little, the tide was turning against the Italian. Taking deep breaths, Albus had watched the members of the assembly quibble; it was strange to think that Archenhaud d’Aubernon, whom he and Gellert had known and disliked in their youth, should have been the one to tip the scales. His reasons behind the objection did not matter; Albus could have kissed him out of sheer gratitude.

“You are forgetting we might still need him to provide information in the future,” a Norwegian had then pointed out. “Actions this radical may satisfy your desire for revenge, but they are rarely prudent. A strict punishment is in order, yes, but our Ministry does not endorse irreversible measures.”

With this contribution, the turning point had been sealed. It had taken the judges a while to settle on the Silencing Charm as a part of Gellert’s sentence, but Matteo d’Angelli knew he had lost. He had no choice but to concede, throwing Albus a dirty look, which was returned in full measure.

Those wizards’ hypocrisy was what outraged the Englishman the most. In reality, they cared nothing about the lives lost in the war; the single purpose behind their eloquent speeches was to maintain the current political system. Abolishing the Statute of Secrecy meant more than the right to perform magic without risking punishment every time a Muggle happened to be near: it also implied more extensive transparency. Wizards would no longer be able to get away with attacking Muggles—the principle of equality was, after all, at the heart of the concept _for the Greater Good_ . And there were a great many powerful people, from politicians and tradesmen to pure-bloods from ancient families, who favoured the privacy the Statute allowed. The _corruption_ it entailed. Matteo d’Angelli was but another minister whose ultimate nightmare was to see his dealings exposed. So instead, those men demonised Gellert, anxious to stifle his ideas, lest they take root among the common population.

As Albus gazed into the night, he saw before him the faces of the wizards in power. His jaw clenched. Every time he went to see his lover at Nurmengard, every time memories overtook him, his torment would be so visceral that only physical pain could silence it. Tonight, however, wrath eclipsed all other feeling. He longed to see those people suffer. He wished he could take both the government and the radical pure-blood fraction and destroy them in as ruthless a manner as possible—or better yet, cause them to destroy themselves. Aside from establishing justice, it would eliminate the two primary obstacles to the equality Gellert had envisioned and break the vicious circle they had lived in for centuries.

The notion was vague, its contours hazy, yet it resonated with Albus on the profoundest level, fuelled with love and grief and rage. The Ministries were determined to see him and Gellert as monsters. Perhaps the time had come to grant their wish: a monster was what they would have in him. There had to be a way to pit the two rotten wizarding fractions against each other, and he was going to find it. He would force them to provide Gellert with decent conditions, and then he would make them rue the day they had stabbed him in the back.

In the years to come, he would not be able to recall whether he had slept a wink that night. He watched the sky grow pale, no longer one with the mountains. Slowly, majestically, the sun emerged from behind the icy peaks: a jewel in a blushing firmament. Clear as glass, the waters of the lake reflected the scenery; their surface would soon become bright in the sunlight. To Albus’s fascinated eyes, the beauty of the dawn felt like a sign of hope, a blessing almost.

Nothing had outwardly changed. He spent the morning assisting at the Conjuring class before strolling down to the village and examining the ships at the dock at his leisure. He saw Pia and Inca exit Gretten Bjørn, their faces merry with laughter, their hands joined, and despite himself, he entered the cosy pub, aware how fond of it Gellert had been. His melancholy never left him, and yet, something felt different. Before, he had merely admired the school, grateful to find himself invited to this most special place. Even though he had once visited it in Gellert’s memories, he had never truly belonged here.

Now, as he walked along the archways of the castle and contemplated the grounds through the vaulted windows, he _sensed_ he was no longer a guest. It could be due to the weeks of his stay, but this alone could not account for the subtle, mystical impression that he was at home. Durmstrang was the school of Dark Arts. He knew what it implied. And there was nothing alarming about it; in fact, he had rarely felt so free and conscious of his power.

Not only did this frame of mind not waver through the days to come; it could be compared to a lucky charm, a source of comfort in his constant worry for the German wizard. When his final lesson arrived—a seminar on casting the Patronus Charm as a means of sending secret messages—the spell came more easily than usual. It occurred to him the luminous phoenix could be an incarnation of Gellert’s personality as much as his own. He had gained Fawkes’s friendship and become capable of producing this Charm after falling in love; as such, the phoenix could be his natural Patronus form, or it could be his lover’s. Most likely, they would never know for certain.

It was a particularly successful lesson. Since Durmstrang carefully selected its students, everyone in the classroom possessed the raw magical skill required to cast the spell. Not all of them, however, could claim to have happy memories. In spite of the common belief, wealth often proved to be the origin of many misfortunes.

A quiet shuffling came from behind him, and he turned to see Giacomo d’Angelli observing him with a shy yet sombre expression. The class had been dismissed; he alone had lingered. Instinctively, Albus came closer; having witnessed the young wizard’s effort to summon a happy recollection, he could understand Giacomo’s low spirits all too well.

"You have the power to do it," he said gently. "The memories will come, I promise. It was the same for me."

"Isn't there any other way to master this spell?" the young man inquired. "Intendo—I mean to say… If I have to wait for a happy memory to come, I will lose time, no?"

"The Patronus is helpful but by no means necessary; there are other spells that can be used for both protection and communication. What sets it apart is that it requires powerful emotion: if not a memory, then perhaps a wish, a dream.” Albus thought of Miss Valdez and her strong Patronus in the form of a wildcat. “Friendship is one of the best stimuli for such magic."

The boy considered him thoughtfully. "You really were friends, weren't you? It’s not just a rumour. Father told me."

"It is true."

There was an instant of silence before Giacomo went on.

"My father fought hard to overthrow the tyrant who had spread his reign of terror across the entire continent."

"But you don't share his point of view," Albus divined.

"No. Yet you don't like me. Why? Is it because of father? I know what verdict he tried to push through. I overheard him when he was telling my stepmother."

Albus knew they were touching upon the subject the Headmaster had asked him not to discuss with the students. Yet something in Giacomo’s countenance told him to hear him out: behind his smooth façade, the young wizard seemed to be crying for help, for acceptance.

"I bear you no ill will, Mr d'Angelli," he assured him. "I apologise if I have given you such an impression."

"I could help you," the boy suddenly said. "I have the d'Angelli name and blood and all the privileges that come with my status. I may only be a student for now, but soon, doors will be open for me. Even if my father leaves every single Galleon to stepmother, he cannot take the d'Angelli blood and name from me; I am his son. And it’s all good because I believe in the idea of the Greater Good. I know what Gellert Grindelwald was trying to achieve for all of us: he wanted to give us wizards freedom. He wanted to liberate us from the greatest lie in history—the vile belief that magic is bad and that we must fear it and spend our lives in concealment or pay the price. He wanted to do good; he never was a tyrant. _They_ are the tyrants, the true tyrants. You know it, don't you?"

For a few seconds, Albus could not move; he could not even draw a breath. The young man’s passionate speech had captivated him. It was painfully sweet to hear of such admiration for Gellert’s dream, and it was all but impossible to believe that after many months of distress, they were being offered a helping hand. Was this the answer to his prayers?

Akin to the Blacks and the Malfoys, the d’Angelli family commanded respect and wielded influence far beyond the Italian borders. If Giacomo were to join the political sphere—and it was clear he meant every word of his proposal—he _would_ be in a position to impact Gellert’s sentence. It was a solution so simple, so obvious that it had to be a mirage. Even so, hope had taken growth in Albus’s heart before he could even have noticed, let alone reined it in.

If he accepted, he would be breaking his word to Headmaster Halvørssen and betraying his trust. Could he do this? A haunting if quiet voice inside him insisted that for Gellert’s sake, he could and would. There might not be another offer of help for months if not years. And every day at Nurmengard rendered Gellert weaker. All Albus wished to do was save him.

Except there was more. One aspect, he could not ignore: Giacomo’s heartache. Twice, the young wizard had mentioned a stepmother who was likely to appropriate his inheritance. After his mother’s passing, he appeared to be a stranger in his own home, unloved by his remaining parent. In spite of his good looks, his noble name, his popularity and his close friendship with Justice Valdez, his past held no joyful memories. All of this resulted in an existence so desolate that the boy was ready to pledge himself to a dangerous cause, only to prove his worth and escape his loneliness. Despair was what nurtured his desire for rebellion.

It was unsettling to think how easy he would be to manipulate. Young people were suggestible, and those who suffered from solitude and rejection were twice so. Never had Albus felt it as strongly as now when he had found himself the unwitting guide of this boy’s future.

He himself had been one of such youngsters. Starved for affection, he had offered himself to Gellert, disregarding everyone’s warnings in the process. It could have ended in a disaster that would have scarred him for life; but instead, Gellert had rewarded his gift with love.

_I've never used you, Albus. I never_ use _anyone for achieving my goals; it is one of my principles._

Could he, Albus, take advantage of Giacomo's inexperience and solitude to fulfil his agenda? He had no right. Not even for Gellert's sake, for his lover would never have approved. The right course of action was refusing the offer, even if it involved hurting the young wizard’s feelings.

His mind set, he spoke at last, anxious to formulate his answer before he could regret it.

"I do." He fixed the Italian boy with a gentle gaze. “But there is a difference between ideological convictions and politics—you, I’m afraid, are much too young yet to understand. If, in a few years, when you enter the political scene, you still hold those beliefs and wish to subscribe to the cause, it will be your right. For now, it wouldn’t be right of me to seek your help, though it means much to me. Not until you are aware of everything it entails and can freely choose your side."

Giacomo stared back at him. It was obvious the teacher’s dismissal had wounded him. Youth was predictable in its sense of self-importance, and Albus had counted on as much.

Swallowing his bitter emotion, the young man blinked, and his posture changed, as though reverting to its natural mechanism of self-defence. It immediately became clear he often faced dismissal. Yet when he responded, there was no anger in his voice, merely regret.

"You are wrong, professor; the time to act is _now_ because soon, wizards will forget. Wizards always forget. I would know. It’s not only my personal sentiment based on the way my father acts—as if my mother had never existed—it is how people are, wizards and Muggles alike. Time will pass, someone else will come along, and Gellert Grindelwald will be forgotten."

With this, Giacomo excused himself. Albus gazed after his retreating figure with unfocused eyes. It was small consolation to know he had made the moral choice when he would have died to see Gellert’s conditions improved. He had deliberately turned down the only proposal of assistance he had received to this day. What manner of disloyal fool did this make him?

There would be other opportunities, he repeated to himself while his feet carried him towards the guest wing. And when they came, he would be ready. Giacomo’s endeavour had revealed a valuable truth: acting on his own behalf was not nearly as efficient as gaining the alliance of a person with a widely respected name, who could embody the cause. If ever he should be granted such a chance again, he would not evade it. But he knew better than to hope for a miracle. It was time to honour his decision and set to work. For Gellert, for the Greater Good.

**Author's Note:**

> Help will always be given at Durmstrang to those who ask for it. This being said, be careful what you wish for. 
> 
> Hopefully, this story sheds light on the origin of certain decisions we see Albus make throughout the Harry Potter series. The next installment will reveal even more. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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